


The Best Intentions

by onyxshinigami



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Death, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 19:14:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7813843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onyxshinigami/pseuds/onyxshinigami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are many sincere people who want to do right.  The consequences are deadly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best Intentions

The sun was almost gentle.

He was helping his grandmother water their backyard garden. They grew practical things first; neat rows of boxes that nurtured tomatoes, peppers, beans, and Malabar spinach. There was a small, temperamental lime tree in the corner that had to be watered ‘just so’ or it would drop leaves in an eye blink and refuse to produce anything resembling fruit. Only his mother seemed able to coax it along.

His mother had a habit of ruffling his hair, even though he was almost as tall as she was. She loved his curls. His father’s curls.

Vertical rows of potted herbs lined the cinderblock wall that separated their home from the traffic behind. Their green leaves and colourful pots cheering the industrialized barren grey. Each pot had been painted by a member of their family. Abuela could tell the story of every pot; when it was painted, who decorated it, and why it was painted. She painted worlds with her words. “Everything has a story, child. You just have to wait and listen.”

He was never the most patient child, but he was learning.

His grandmother grew marigolds. They were her most cherished plants. They served so many purposes for their family. They were, first and foremost, beautiful. Their bright orange petals lifted everyone’s spirits. Abuela and his mother would carefully select blossoms to make bouquets several times a year, pinching off the stems, the scent filling the air; pungent and musky. The blossoms were harvested on their wedding anniversaries. Those marigolds were set into his great-grandmother’s blue-glazed vase. Another harvest was for the days their husbands died. On those days, the marigolds were placed into a simple terra cotta pot his mother had made. Those were quiet days. Another harvest came for the _Día de los Muertos_. The whole family gathered together in the garden, taking the flowers she gave them and tying them with ribbons into little bouquets. The whole house was filled with laughter and light; the scent of sweet bread and tamales mixing with marigolds.

Sometimes you could forget.

Abuela was laughing. Something he had said, a story about his day made her laugh. He could hear his mother laughing behind him, the sound so similar to his grandmother’s that he felt surrounded by her. She was all around him, laughing and smiling and full of joy.

The sharp whistle of metal. A look of surprise. She blinked. Fell down. Lay on her side.

Pain in his chest; his shoulder? He dropped to his knees beside her; tried to call her name. He couldn’t breathe to ask her if she was okay.

He heard his mother screaming into the house to call an ambulance. He felt her hands, small, strong hands, pressing at his chest. He thought he heard her say “Hold still, baby, hold still. I got you. Just breathe.”

He wanted to lay down; slumped to the earth, curled into himself. His mother’s hands continued pressing and grabbing at his chest. Her voice seemed farther away. He looked into his grandmother’s eyes as she lay beside him in the garden. He reached out a hand, brown and black and red, and closed her empty eyes. His touch left dark stains on her face. He couldn’t look away.

The rich scent of dirt and marigolds lulled him to sleep.

The sun on his face was almost gentle.

 

*** *** ***

 

He stared long and hard into the mirror at the hospital. After her funeral. In the weeks and months that passed, the quiet in him grew deeper.

People deserved better than that. They deserved to be safe. He wanted to turn back time and save her; pull her to the ground, take the accidental bullet for her. He wanted to save her, protect her. But it was done. And she was gone. Dancing with her husband on the other side; light as a feather, laughing in her garden of marigolds. Never tired or hungry or hurt ever again.

He made a promise to his grandmother on the anniversary of her death.

The following year, Gabriel Reyes walked into a military recruitment center.

 

*** *** ***

 

He left the military for Overwatch. More needed to be done and with the politics involved there were only certain places Reyes could be. Only a select few he could protect and save. It wasn’t good enough. Overwatch had a global reach. There were still politics, but he had more sanction to move from place to place regardless of country. The Omnics certainly weren’t limited by region, stopping politely at the boarder of one country to wait for a passport or permission. People were dying by the thousands, and he was determined to save them. Whatever it took.

Whatever it takes.

 

*** *** ***

 

When Morrisson was held up to the spotlight as the Overwatch poster child, Reyes slipped back into the shadows. The team he had worked so hard to form into a cohesive unit now belonged to another. He tried to pretend that being passed over didn’t bother him. There was work to be done and not just anyone could do it. Overwatch needed information and it needed people who could get that information quickly and, if possible, quietly. Reyes took the initiative once again and soon found himself the leader of a secondary team the others called Blackwatch. Officially, Blackwatch did not exist.

Reyes didn’t care what they were called or who knew about them as long as he was helping get the job done. He could do it. Lives were at stake. People he would never know depended on his success. He would keep them safe.

He picked the ones that were efficient and highly skilled. He worked the disparate personalities and backgrounds into a self-sufficient and functioning team, even ended up with a sort-of apprentice. McCree was talented and smart, but his misplaced loyalty had led him astray. Reyes helped him put those skills to a better than self-serving use.

He had a team, a unit, a family again. They worked together and fought together and saved each other’s lives more times than he could recall. They protected. They saved lives. They did what needed to be done.

He did what needed to be done.

 

*** *** ***

 

The sun was gentle.

He could feel it on his skin

What was left of it.

 

*** *** ***

 

_What have they done to me?_

 

*** *** ***

 

He found jobs that needed to be done and he did them.

He didn’t care who the job was for.

He didn’t care how much the job paid.

He didn’t care if he worked alone.

He did care about the people.

Sometimes he heard whispers of the Reaper.

_What have they done to me?_

Death comes in his shadow. The Reaper will claim all.

No. Not true.

He did the jobs no one else would do. They needed protecting and they couldn’t do it alone. Someone needed his help. Someone had to die. One life for another. Protect the ones that needed him.

No more stray bullets, even if he had to burn the factory to the ground.

He would save them.

 

*** *** ***

 

Marigolds grew wild near a small park, not far from the place his family resided. He gathered a few, pinching off the stems the way his abuela had shown him not so long ago.

Was it yesterday or forever ago?

He added his offerings to those that had been left behind earlier during the festivities. So many people had come to remember their families. Remember. His family. Abuelo. Papa. Mama.

“Abuela…”

He lingered there in the dying candlelight breathing the scent of marigolds; half unpleasant, half alluring. His fingers gently traced her name; scratched the granite. He cursed himself.

Silent then, and still. The space between the living and the dead. The shadow of a promise.

Time loses all meaning when it’s wrapped in grief’s shawl.

Dawn surprised him.

The sun was almost gentle.


End file.
